Shattered
by Enaid Aderyn
Summary: Vigil's Keep is taken, and Zevran has fallen through the Eluvian to find himself in Italy. Response to the Crossover challenge on Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age. M for violent imagery. NOT slash.


_A response to Reyavie's crossover challenge on the Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age forum. Note: for these purposes, Zevran's appearance is the original, unmodded DA:O version. _

**Shattered**

_**o0o**_

Treachery and betrayal.

Vigil's Keep had fallen. Pitched battles still raged throughout, but they were the spasms of a decapitated adder: fatal for the unwary hand, but no less doomed. Orlais and the Divine's adherents evidently had a bent for long-range planning worthy of a Howe. Or of a Crow.

Diplomacy. Trade. Conferences. The Free Exchange of Ideas. All encouraged and sponsored by the starry-eyed young King and by the Hero of Ferelden, a.k.a. Arlessa of Amaranthine, a.k.a. Warden Commander, a.k.a. Filthy Knife Eared Mage, and all enabling the surreptitious buildup of support and force for the strike at their heart.

But the venom on the blade came from within. Conscription was all very well as a means of snatching wiling recruits from the embrace of the law or the Chantry or of amassing Warden fodder to throw at hordes of darkspawn. But to expect someone's convictions and resentments to transform into a fraternal bond simply because you poured a draught of slow poison down their throat was naive to the point of insanity. And Neria, in sheer temper and misguided attempts to force understanding, had exercised the Right inadvisably often.

Zevran should never have given up that argument, never. His lovely Warden was obstinate, but surely he could have-

"I suppose this is where you say 'I told you so,' isn't it?" Neria observed in her uncanny habit of voicing his thoughts.

He recovered his blade and swiped it across the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on his victim's tabard.

"Not _here,_ _mi amore_, no," he said thoughtfully, stepping over a second body, this a traitor Warden, to help Neria to her feet. "I shall wait to say 'I told you so' until we are away from here in a well-appointed bedroom. You will, with a good deal of justification, demand to know why I did not make greater efforts to prevent disaster if I am so omniscient. I will then make flippant remarks to deflect my guilt, which will enrage you to the point of an abortive attempt to slap me and in the ensuing tussle we will fall upon the bed and proceed to have lavish make-up sex."

"Sounds like a plan." Neria coughed and shook her head wearily in answer to his concerned look. "I'm okay, other than a bent ankle. Sort of. As soon as they see me, they immediately Smite and drain my mana. It's getting- well, I've got nothing left."

"'Smite on Sight'?" Zevran spoke lightly, inwardly cursing. "Our misfortune to be overrun by fanatics capable of thinking beyond the next meal. Here." He passed her one of the corpse's daggers. "Not ideal, but better than nothing."

"Any bombs left?"

"Mm . . . one, but designed for wide area damage. To use it in close quarters would be unwise to say the least."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Indeed." Zevran slung her arm over his shoulder and turned his head, listening. "Where to, my dear Warden? The ground floor is taken, and company is most certainly on the way."

"Can we get to my workshop? There should be lyrium there, and more of my kinds of weapons."

"As you wish." They set off with the clamor of death in pursuit.

_**o0o**_

"Hurry."

Zevran pushed the door to as Neria limped forward to paw through her cluttered worktable, their movements dimly reflected in the partially draped Eluvian tucked against the far wall.

"I don't . . . damn it, where . . .?"

"Commander?" Neria spun with a gasp and relaxed at sight of the fresh-faced young Warden who stood in the shadows.

"Odo! Good to see you." The big man had been an enthusiastic volunteer three seasons earlier.

"Looking for these?" He toed a basket filled with vials and other paraphernalia.

Nudged it _away._

_Brasca. _Mindful of approaching footsteps in the corridor, Zevran drew his blades as Neria replied carefully.

"Yes, in fact. I am."

Odo held his hand up.

"Didn't you realize, _Commander_, that there's no reason to send assassins when all one has to do is join the club?" He brought his hand down abruptly as Zevran flung himself forward a precious moment too late. The Eluvian teetered as the two men crashed into a table.

Reeling from the Smite, Neria fumbled her dagger out. The combatants rolled, scattering papers and dried herbs, and when Odo's back presented itself she raised the weapon, blinking to clear her vision as the door flung open behind her.

The dagger fell with a useless clatter as a sword burst through her stomach, buried to the hilt in her back by the first of the templars swarming into the room.

Zevran frantically slammed his forehead into Odo's nose. Twisting his wrists free from the loosened grip he dug one blade into the traitor's eye and flung the other into the templar's throat. He struggled to throw off Odo's dead weight, watching helplessly as Neria staggered and slipped to one knee with the sword wagging like an horrific, gore-drenched phallus. Another templar swung his greatsword down on her neck and in a bloody spatter the head went bouncing, its unlovely gape a silent mockery of Zevran's scream of denial.

He rolled free and without hesitation yanked the incendiary from his belt and lobbed it into their midst. The ensuing concussion flung him away like so much chaff into the mirror which shattered under the impact.

_Andraste, you whore, let me die this time._

_**o0o**_

_**o0o**_

Treachery and betrayal.

Ezio cursed to feel the courtyard wall at his back preventing further retreat and whipped his last throwing knife at the archer stationed on the little church's roof, twisting as he did to avoid a spear thrust from the crowd of his assailants.

_Rot your stones for leading this templar to me, Lapo. Will your widow agree that it was such a fine idea? _He chopped through the spear before it could be withdrawn.

The templar in question prowled the outskirts of the fray with sword drawn, steel helm reflecting the moonlight and striped in shadow.

"Getting tired, little assassin? We will remedy that," he mocked.

Ezio saved his breath, for the brutal truth was that he _was_ tired, and an accumulation of minor wounds was sapping his reserves all the more. He parried a sword and missed his return cut.

_Uncle. Father . . . I'm sorry . . ._

In an explosion of shattering glass a figure crashed through the chapel's central clerestory window. Time seemed to slow as the man fell limply in a cloud of glinting, shivering fragments, a catlike twist at the last moment sparing him a broken neck if not a hard fall.

"You two. Kill that one. No witnesses."

The men peeled away and Ezio took advantage of the distraction to seize a third and run him through. He shoved the body away, vaguely aware of muffled cries from the direction of the newcomer. The leader closed in, flanked by his remaining two followers, and pressed Ezio with a series of heavy blows.

"Little assassin, you will trouble the Order no long-"

With a blade in each hand, the stranger appeared from behind and in a maneuver that Mario would have applauded cut down the man and a guard with one sweep. He released his weapons, seized the leader's sword and as Ezio leaped forward to dispatch the last attacker plunged it viciously into the falling man's face.

"Bastard templars . . . kill you . . . _all _. . ."

Easily beating down his demoralized foe's defense, Ezio finished the battle with a quick thrust. He paused to catch his breath, then approached his rescuer who still leaned, swaying, on the impaling sword.

"You have my thanks, friend. My name is Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and things would have gone very badly for me indeed without your timely intervention."

"I . . . Zevran. . . Arainai. But . . . I . . ." He sagged abruptly and Ezio caught him before he joined the scatter of corpses.

He laid the unconscious man down in a clear area and hastened to perform what field aid he knew, hissing in sympathetic concern. In addition to a score across the chest - courtesy of one of the thugs who greeted him, no doubt - the fellow was covered in bleeding lacerations from the broken glass, with several large shards still imbedded in his flesh. The fine leather armor had been sliced up like paper. It was a miracle he had been able to move at all, let alone kill four men with-

Hm, yes. With an Assassin's efficiency. Intriguing.

He glanced at the ugly contusion on the man's forehead and paused, staring.

_His ears . . ._

Wondering if the moonlight was playing tricks with his vision, Ezio touched the distinctly tapered skin, then carefully sat back on his heels. After a moment's consideration, he pulled the crucifix from around his neck, hesitated, and touched it to the man's skin. No reaction.

Chiding himself for behaving like a superstitious peasant but relieved all the same, Ezio replaced the necklace. Tilting his head to settle the chain, his glance passed over the building and he abruptly came to his feet.

The clerestory window was perfectly whole and unbroken.

He revolved in place, knowing he wasn't mistaken but checking nonetheless. There was only one possible window a man could have fit through, and it was _untouched._

_I know what I saw and what I heard. He didn't just fall from the roof. He came bursting through that glass like someone threw him. And besides- _The jagged shards he'd painstakingly removed from the man's wounds glinted at him in mocking confirmation and he shuddered.

_What in God's name just happened?_

Ezio remained standing, marshaling his thoughts and studying the stranger. A trickle of blood, black in the moonlight, oozed down the man's cheek, the track it left one amongst many. Ezio's lips tightened and he nodded once.

_Ma bene, Signore Arainai. You breathe and you bleed like any man, and unless my eyes deceive you weep as well. You saved my life at risk to your own and that I will not ignore. Whatever else is to be learned can wait._

He collected his mount and carefully settled his charge across the saddle, thankful they had not far to travel. On an impulse, he ground the glass shards to a powder under his heel, then swung up behind and set out for Monteriggioni.

_**o0o**_

The doctor began packing away his simples, tut-tutting like a great black bedside hen.

"So and so. _T-t-t. _ As you see, I have stitched the worst of the cuts. Some have already become badly inflamed, which is of some concern; these poultices should draw out the sickness. _T-t-t._ Change the dressings when they become saturated. If his fever becomes too great send for me and I will let some blood."

Privately thinking that Arainai might prefer to retain what little blood he hadn't already shed, Ezio nodded as the doctor continued.

"I have dosed him with valerian – here is more. It will ease the pain and help him stay quiet. We do not want the wounds pulled and reopened, no, _t-t-t._" He secured his case and eyed the unconscious man. "Fascinating, fascinating, the unusual shape of the ears. The sort of feature that gives rise to tales of fairies and monsters amongst the ignorant." He chuckled fulsomely. "But here we are enlightened men of science. An accident of birth, nothing more, _t-t-t_. Perhaps even a family trait, most intriguing-"

"Yes, most intriguing, dottore," Ezio interjected, "I must request, however, that you not discuss the matter with others, even your colleagues. The poor fellow has enough to bear without his . . . deformity becoming a matter of idle speculation."

The doctor drew himself up. "Ah, Signore, the Auditores may rely upon me. I am _nothing_ if not discreet."

Ezio held his gaze. "Indeed."

The other wilted slightly and Ezio clapped him on the shoulder. "You are a man of great understanding. Here: your fee for your most excellent services. And it occurs to me that you very likely could stand to invest in new stock, yes?" Florins clinked musically, and the gratified doctor bobbed and tutted and repeatedly blessed the Auditore patronage as he was escorted out.

Ezio finally closed the door and turned to see the invalid's eyes were open, fever-bright and wary.

"Ah. Signore Arainai." He crossed to the bedside and seated himself on the doctor's vacated stool. "Be easy, you are safe with friends. Do you remember me?" Arainai tried to speak, choked, and Ezio made haste to pour some watered wine and help him sip.

"Auditore," he whispered. "Enzio?"

"Ezio."

"Scusi. Ezio, yes." Struggling to stay awake, his gaze wandered to the open window where a cluster of scarlet bougainvillea glowed against the vividly blue sky and he frowned slightly. "Where...?"

"We are in Villa Auditore, my uncle's home."

"But . . . in Antiva." Arainai looked at Ezio for confirmation.

"Eh? No, this is Monteriggioni. Tuscany," Ezio added at the other's blank look. "I am not familiar with Antiva. Is it a town in Tuscany?"

Clearly taken aback, Arainai merely shook his head in the negative.

Ezio debated with himself a moment.

"Signore. Will you answer a question?"

"If I . . . am able, Signore Auditore." Arainai replied tiredly, his eyes straying back to the window.

"Forgive me, but . . ." He hesitated long enough for Arainai to stir in faint concern, and then blurted, "Are you a human being?"

Arainai looked at Ezio as if he were insane, and then an extraordinary series of expressions passed across the injured man's face: dawning comprehension, a flicker of panic, despair, resignation. At length he dropped his gaze, speaking wearily.

"How will you define it? I am shaped differently in a minor way, but I am as mortal as you. I am a part . . . I am in this world, as are you. I am," his hand closed on the bed linen, "I am fallible. Maker's _breath_, I am _fallib-_" His voice broke and he fell silent, squeezing his eyes shut.

Ezio closed his own eyes at the intensity of pain and bitterness he had heard, recognizing a burden akin to that on his own soul. _Father. Federico. Petruccio._

He remained quiet, and Arainai gradually relaxed as the valerian took hold.

_**o0o**_

_**o0o**_

Zevran finished his ablutions and braced himself on the basin stand to catch his breath, relishing the measure of independence, however shaky, after so many days of convalescence. He pushed his hair back with a sigh and, foregoing his shirt to let his skin dry in the warm air, turned away from the niche to be confronted by the fine mirror hanging in pride of place directly opposite.

The moisture on his arms had long dried before he finally stirred himself and deliberately crossed the room. Hesitantly, slowly, he raised a hand and touched his fingertips to the glass as delicately as in an attempt to leave a pool of water undisturbed, half expecting to see the self-same ripples spread across the surface.

Nothing.

Feeling the fool, he pressed more firmly. Glass, and glass only: smooth, slightly cool, unyielding. He changed his focus to his reflection, studying the livid scar that transected the elegant tattoo on his cheek. Less than a finger's width higher and the shard would have passed through his eye and into his brain.

He shifted his gaze to the ragged wound stretching along his collar bone, remembering the feel of glass slicing ever more deeply with each movement, as if every blow he struck were at himself rather than his foes. A little more to the left would have crippled him; more to the right would have cut his throat.

Down his chest, along his arms, his wrists, his gut. A little deeper _here_; just missed _there_. And left unattended he would surely have bled to death in short order.

What a very fortunate fellow he was indeed.

The skin under his nails had become white crescents of pressure. He let his hand slide down, listening to the faint whine as his fingers passed across the pristine surface.

Once he had laughingly told his Neria that Fate was a "tricky whore."

No.

It was a brat child that pulled the wings from flies and set cats' tails alight, simply because it could.

_**o0o**_

_"Ecco! Idiota, non cosi! Ancora una volta!"_

Shouts and the clash of weapons hung like dust motes in the late afternoon air where Zevran leaned on the terrace wall overlooking the practice arena. In the weeks since his recovery he had been gradually acclimating, cautiously picking his footing as he sidled into this new world. His appearance was less of an issue than he would have feared. Humans here seemed to vary in size more than in Thedas, and Zevran simply fell into the short end of the spectrum. Wearing a cap or a hood concealed his most obvious difference. Even without, the casual observer was as likely to overlook or rationalize as to wonder. People were the same everywhere: most saw only what they were willing to see; they remembered only what they needed.

He had won the respect of the Auditore armsmen in short order, for his skills were easily on a par with Mario Auditore's. The differences between his and the old fox's bags of tricks made for some exhilarating and educational bouts in the training arena and inspired equally lively betting on the sidelines. The same could be said about Mario's nephew, who while less experienced had the benefits of youth and being an exceptionally quick study.

The arts of killing were as easy as ever. The art of living? Far more complex.

So strange. In so many ways this _was_ his beautiful Antiva: the language, the environment, the very feel of the air. Yet it was all different. He spent his evenings studying maps, conversing with Mario and Ezio, reading everything available from prayer books to tax records to political flyers. Once the master of casual banter, now he became the silent observer. Better to be thought mysterious and detached than to reveal his ignorance of the most commonplace trivialities. It was like a bizarre reverse-image of his Crow training, in which his survival depended upon learning everything _other_ than assassination.

The Assassins, yes. The Auditores naturally had secrets yet undisclosed to their otherworldly guest, but even so it was clear their Order was utterly unlike the Crows, for all that they dealt in death. Founded in a sense of kinship, working from the shadows for the light, was it? Their pernicious enemy being an order calling themselves, oddly enough, Templars. One evening over a second bottle of wine Zevran had explained to Ezio a small part of the events leading up to his arrival, confessing that if he hadn't been more than a little deranged he would never have mistaken Ezio's attackers for his own enemies. The younger man had shrugged as he shared out the last of the velvety red between them.

"I am hardly likely to be offended by your dispatching someone intent upon gutting me, whatever your state of mind at the time. If you had come after me, well, yes, _that_ would have upset me." Leaning back, he made a long arm to retrieve a third bottle from the rack, and after prizing the seal loose toyed with it in thought. "I leave philosophy to the doctors and people like my friend Leonardo, but . . . whether it was the magic of your place, or the hand of God . . ." Ezio had shaken his head and topped off their glasses. "To say it is all just a coincidence seems . . . large."

_"Basta! Sei troppo lento."_

_"Ma il sole è nei miei occhi."_

Zevran spread his palms flat on the sun-warmed stone. Large indeed. Large enough to crush a man with its sufficiency of largeness. And if it had been 'the magic of his place,' well, that was a moot point now.

No magic. None. Or certainly nothing anyone could see or prove.

_. . . the greatsword descends and severs . . ._

How entirely appropriate.

Looking out across Monteriggioni, he took long, slow breaths of the rosemary-scented air and followed the distant hills with his eyes. Perhaps this was for the best? Antiv- _Italia_ – as life would have been without the Crows, or Elven Alienages, or Blights . . . no past save that which he carried within. A new start of the purest kind-

_Stop._

_That creature is Hope, which will turn and savage you whenever you befriend it._

At the crunch of gravel underfoot he turned his head and nodded a greeting to Ezio, who propped his elbows on the wall and watched the men sparring below in the sunset-lit air.

"I have been speaking to my uncle," he said after a companionable silence, "and he is in agreement. Should you desire it, we would offer you a place with us, in the House Auditore, but more, to assist us – me – in our goals."

Zevran threw him a glance, brows raised. Ezio turned to face him.

"I don't pretend to understand the forces that brought you here, nor can I begin to imagine what it must be like for you, what you went through and what you must feel daily. What I do know is this: you are highly skilled, and you are intelligent, and you are determined. But more, you are a good man in the ways that matter, and there is a kinship of spirit that one does not lightly dismiss. And I would count it an honor to have you with me."

Wordlessly, the elf looked down at his hands where they rested on the wall, then raised his head and studied the rose-colored hills.

"Think about it." Ezio put a hand on his shoulder and started to turn away.

"No need." Zevran spoke quietly, and held out his hand as Ezio stopped. "I am your man, without reservation."

"Molto bene!" Ezio clasped his arm. "Come, we will be leaving for Firenze in a day's time, and we have much to discuss."

_So._

A purpose. A brotherhood.

_Farewell, mia adorata. I do not ask you to forgive me when I will not do so myself._

_Live in the moment, and do not look the creature Hope in the eye. Perhaps that is all one really needs._

A new start, then.


End file.
